Category Archives: damned

popless

Have days off the pop is getting easier, last night was the easiest yet. It’s a question of carefully combining the holy trinity of grot, goggle and game; that’s wanking, watching TV and playing Tomb Raider specifically.

There is a very simple psychological trick I discovered cycling home towards my inebriation free environment last night. The desire to burp the worm is a given, it’s as alluring as wanting a bottle of wine in many respects so you’ve already managed to offset the initial pangs of wanting a drink, simply by flipping on the PC and giving oneself a beef shake. To positively look forward to playing the game, even watching fucking Big Brother, are extremely effective in countering the whole no booze=boredom/misery factor. Put the three together and you’ve more of a fighting chance of making it through the night, clean.

But there are aspects of the evening that conspire against you.

Following the humiliating ritual of drowning of the skipper’s tablecloth, we encounter one of three danger zones. The post wank lull is the perfect time to pour oneself a G & T, sit back and enjoy the delicious warm twinge, you know, downstairs (shhhhh).

The next danger point occurs over a period of time after the bath/shower and the preparation of supper. Oddly I’ve noticed that the glass of wine with the meal thing isn’t as big a problem as I thought. Whilst its fucking bloody lovely to have a glass with ones meal the desire to drink whilst making the meal is far, far worse, you know, Radio 4 on, pottering in the kitchen, glass of wine… it’s life, surely?

I finished dinner and got stuck right in to Tomb Raider. It’s a fucking good one, not idiotically difficult but by the same token it requires a certain degree of dedication, at this stage my desire to drink was at it’s lowest. I played for an hour making steady progress before watching Big Brother. It’s bloody helpful it’s on at 10 because it’s here we hit danger zone 3, the last and possibly the trickiest of the lot.

The feeling of boozefree success can inspire a nightcap; this inspiration becomes a need in which the whole ‘well you’ve come this far’ can be easily compromised. I punched through the wall by employing a one skinned spliff and the last of the Pomegranate and Blueberry juice, which had accompanied me on my journey for the evening. It certainly helps, as does tea.

By 11 I was beginning to feel tired. Feeling tired is defiantly the final straw; it’s when you know you’ve reached your goal. It’s important to embrace relaxation by nurturing it; the solution is simple, go to bed with a book. This is a guaranteed way to ensure that your mind will be off the pop and that sleep will naturally take over your day.

It’s quite hard work to be proactively not drinking, this can be used to ones advantage. Despite booze being a wonderful way of encouraging sleep, the effort required in not doing so can also be used to ones advantage.

I drifted off just after midnight and slept the whole night without waking once, in addition, when I woke this morning I actually felt refreshed. This is definitely a first, even after 2 days off last week I still woke up feeling as if I’d downed a bottle of Scotch the previous evening.

My cycle into work today was great; it felt good working up a sweat in the warm sunshine, passing through the trees by the river as the little birds whistle out of green hedgerows and squirrels hop up trees. Fellow cyclists pass by with a cursory ‘good morning’, well most of them…

Approaching the turn off the towpath a behemoth in a cycle helmet and one of those fucking fluorescent ‘don’t knock me off’ poof-flags decides to cycle directly at me, it’s my right of way so I don’t yield resulting in Blobs having to undertake a swerve, at which point he shouts something incomprehensible at me…

“What?!” I yell, turning back to see him moving away but maintaining eye contact, he’s peddling quite quickly, despite being under 6 foot and slim, I’m aware I look scary with my shades, bandana over my nose and mouth, Dead Kenndy T-shirt with tattoos poking out… He ignores me.

“WHAT!?” I yell again, geed up by self-awareness and sobriety I add, “YOU FAT CUNT!” He disappears round a bend.

In addition to feeling that my last comment was unnecessary I have to cycle that way to work every day, and I’ve seen him before too. He’s a big lad, he might dwell on what I’ve said, he may want to exact revenge despite my looking like a psycling- psychopath.

Tomorrow I’m taking a knife, just in case…

(quite a number of bods have been asking me who does the music for the dreadful 7 ages of rock on the BBC, despite telling them, I keep getting asked, so, for the second time in as many weeks, these chaps feature. I still prefer neat neat neat…)

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grundy monday

Ray left at some point yesterday morning to go to work, the poor sod, he and I got back home so late it was the next day, sun up birds fucking tweeting… Jesus. I think we tried to drink some more beer but I was now muttering utter drivel. I can recall Ray asking me if I was all right. I was, just wankered

The previous evening I’d met up with my bro in the usual boozer that we frequent on a Sunday, it was 6-ish and we had a pint before being joined by Ray. We had a hilarious chat about onanism made more poignant as the subject is somewhat taboo, off topic as it were, and realising that men operate in very similar ways, in ways most women wouldn’t quite understand, resulted in childish giggles from the back of the pub. The place was rammed as usual with a good ratio of fine women to twattish rugger types. Our conversation required gestures and we were ignored, not unsurprisingly.

At about 8 we three hopped on the tube, one stop south to attend an old mates birthday party. On arrival we were greeted by a pair of bemused European girls and led to the garden where a few guests we sat around a table and a mountain of food and drink. The evening began sedately, my bro and I chatted, we were introduced to the guests and gradually I hit form, largely due to this dreadful moonshine that tasted like poison and had an instant effect on my balance. I was also drinking wine and later beer, I think. I assume I behaved myself because the host of the party, Rick who is teetotal, emailed me to invite me on the motorcycle ride we’d discussed that evening. The spirit was willing but the flesh was still soaked, I was forced to decline on grounds of common sense. The evening passed swiftly, I had no desire to leave, besides I was nattring to a Polish girl with broken English and enchanting eyes. I think I invited her back to my flat being a bit pissed out of my head. Rick was very encouraging in suggesting that would be bad, ‘She’ll never leave!’ he kept saying, I took heed of his advice for a while, until she spat on the ground. For some reason a revolting part of psyche opened up, I found this single action very appealing. I need to try and work out the source of this… or perhaps see a doctor.

The weekend got off to a fine start. After work I hooked up with Frank and we had a few pints in the local. Mercifully the place wasn’t jammed full of no necked skins for the football as, apparently, it was a ‘friendly’ whatever the fuck that means. At around 8 he and I walked to a mates house. We didn’t stay long but got incredibly stoned on this hybrid weed. My mate was regaling us with tales of his youth, drinking heavily and having punch ups outside the local, Frank sarcastically referred to them as ‘salad days’ and I had to bite my lip as I don’t think the comment went down well and one of us chuckling was enough. I was so stoned that on leaving my mouth took on an inane grin, my vision tunnelled and I began to feel the dawning of a trip. Frank was in a similar state. I’ve no idea what the fuck he was saying, or I for that matter, but we were laughing so hard to neither of us could walk in a straight line and on occasion we were forced to physically stop.

I said goodbye to Frank at the junction and we wobbled off to our respective homes. The world smelt of baked beans and vinegar and my legs weighed 10 stone each, by the time I got to the top of my street I could barely walk. I was still grinning like a mental patient when out of the blue, quite literally, I was hit on the side of the face by some behemoth insect, I screamed and flayed my arms about before collecting myself, much to the amusement to a passing couple on the other side of the road. I say amusement, it may have been concern.

Saturday morning I was up early and remarkably clear headed. I made some tea and then Myfwt turned up. She was looking fabulous as usual and no sooner had she parked herself on the sofa, Swineshead turned up too. It was very peculiar, us 3 occupying a part of the day that is normally swallowed up by sleep sat around chatting about Reggae Sauce among other things. It’s been one of those weekends where everything seems to have been funny. Essentially for one hour we just laughed, nearly all the quips were off colour in some form or another but it made for a lively start to day. After Swineshead breezed off I walked Myfwt to her car, got a paper and returned home for a much needed poo. Even that was funny.

I got up on Sunday after 2; I was enormously hungover and missed the Moto GP much to my annoyance. I spent the day in a malaise of writing, lolling about, reading and burping the worm. I ate a kipper with some toast and it did something to take the edge of my illness, as did a bath later. I’d made the decision to not drink that evening so I wrote some more and watched Big Brother, which I’ve reviewed on WWM (link to the right kids, go there after this).

The highlight of the evening was to the 7 Ages of Rock as they were doing punk. What a disappointment, more than that, they ignored some fundamental acts. Firstly, Iggy and The Stooges got a mention whereas they should’ve been given a segment, same with CBGB, the birthplace of punk, we were treated to one shot of a closed venue. It was here that Malcolm Mclaren saw The Ramones and Television prior to returning to London and forming the Pistols. This wasn’t clear; punk was an American invention, however that sticks in my throat. Also some credit to should’ve made to Blondie who managed to take punk into the mainstream, Debbie Harry herself was a key player in the development of the movement, yet all this was ignored. Even the actual shows theme tune musicians The Damned were given the bird save one tiny fragment of footage.

Still it wasn’t all bad, The Ramones got a fair chunk but even this was cut dead by too much irrelevant Pistols footage, the Bill Grundy incident for example, if I remember it was Grundy that got the blame for what happened, it wasn’t a big deal, it was a cheap early evening programme on ITV that clashed with the news on BBC.

All in all the programme was a mess, worst so far. They’d better not balls up Heavy Metal or I’ll start writing offensive letters to the beeb.

I’m a work, I’ve no hangover but I’m tired… actually if the BBC can’t be pissed I’ll do it.

Nice boys too, Captain Sensible is running for parliament at the mo, I shit you not yeah